


Healing Touch.

by GeneralPear



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, gwynevere really wanted to get some and artorias is just thankful tbh, handjob, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 02:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeneralPear/pseuds/GeneralPear
Summary: Artorias has an injury that can be cured by one healer only: Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight. She is happy to aid the handsome knight... and more.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker/Gwynevere
Kudos: 11





	Healing Touch.

**Author's Note:**

> More rarepair goodness because I honestly ship the hell out of these two.  
> Gwynevere is not a giant in this setting, she is around Artorias' size. Gwyndolin's illusion was exaggerated. 
> 
> I wrote this after staying up all night so forgive any typos.

A grim predicament plagued the growing legend of Artorias. A skirmish with the dreaded dragons forced a retreat of his unit. Many were not graced with the ability to return home, scorched to dust or pulverized between nightmarish maws. The healers of the army had their hands full with the ones who survived, either by skill or luck. The only thing to be thankful for was that the injuries sustained were nothing that could not be dealt with by their healers.

There was only one exception: Artorias, who had been maimed the least... yet carried the most grievous injuries. The dragon he challenged was of a kind unseen before. The deepest ebony in coloration, adorned in keeled scales, and harboring a toxin so potent not even the divine could withstand. Not a scratch tarnished Artorias until the final moments before retreat. The dragon had whipped its tail in a wide arc and due to a mere delay by one second, the beast’s poisonous barbs clipped him as he rolled away. A singular gash ran across his face. Shallower scratches upon his chest and torso welled with blood. 

Injuries that would typically be of no concern to Artorias. A quick and easy recovery was complicated by the agonizing toxin. The wounds festered and darkened with infection. Common for his kind, Artorias prided himself on his looks, for he was far more beautiful than any mortal. The festering wound threatened to rob him of his angelic appearance. Tanned skin turned clammy. His face thinned. Even his dark, luscious locks lost their bounce. The sliced skin burned with a heat Artorias never felt before and it finally began to eat away at his composure. 

The army’s typical healers were useless. Numerous attempts were made, none successful. They exchanged worried, anxious looks between each other, all the while reassuring Artorias he would be well again. 

What an insult, to lie to someone of his rank right to their face. 

Only one woman could help him now. 

It was a blessing amidst this harrowing experience. Racked with pain, all that he knew dictated he immediately bow before her.

“Do not bow, knight-constable. Thou art my patient now, patients do not bow."

There she was. Gwynevere, daughter of the Lord he served, the princess of Sunlight. Her radiance was unmatched, her beauty indescribable. She was adorned in pearl-white silks and embellished in gold, a heavenly mirage dying men would see in their final moments. She wielded life the war allowed no other to have. Glossy locks framed her features in an auburn cascade. The fabric might as well have been destined for her body; every curve of her womanly, hourglass-shaped figure was complimented. Not a flaw could be found in her face. Distant mortals made up tales of her creation. Stories that she had been shaped from the sun itself, dancing down from the heavens to bless ailing and lost souls with her light. The Gods, knowing better, scoffed at such stories. Now a witness to the infamous maiden herself, Artorias understood why the mortals stitched together these fables. She was like no other woman. 

Artorias was awed. He did not dare speak. In comparison, his voice was an ugly thing and the careless invitation of it would be an insult to the princess. For the first time since the curse was laid upon him by that wretched beast, his eyes brightened. The air around her was untouched by war, still sacred and pure. Her presence alone soothed him. As if in a trance, his mind was calmed, convinced everything would end up right… and that if he were to die tonight, it would be a peaceful passing as long as her face was the last thing he saw. 

She smiled. A knowing smile, one that revealed she knew he was captivated like many before. 

“Come. Sit. I have heard all I need to know about thine ailment.” Gracefully, she lowered herself to the floor. Soft hands smoothed over a bedroll laid out for those she personally tended to. During times of war, the collective force moved often and what they carried was easily bundled. The tent known as her abode was plainly modest in comparison to the cathedrals they planned. 

Under her spell, Artorias obeyed. He took a seat exactly where she mentioned, his gaze never pulling away from her. 

“Relax, my knight…” Gwynevere cooed in a manner that dissolved Artorias’ steely will. “Let me see thy wounds.” 

She reached out. Gingerly, her fingers slid beneath his jaw. Her touch was a ghost upon his skin. She angled his head upwards, then to the side, maneuvering him in every way she needed to analyze the properties of his injury. She touched near the laceration. The cool feel of the pads of her fingers contrasted against the hot, inflamed tissue. Every movement and moment of contact was careful. Caring, even. So were her eyes, edges softened with compassion. 

Her observation lingered long enough that Artorias began to worry. Her focus had gone past the lesion. It wandered, taking in something more than what was necessary. Did she see something only she was able to? 

Astute, Gwynevere’s pupils snapped back to Artorias’ general appearance. Skillfully aware of his growing concern. She read him easier than a child’s book. Her hands pulled away. Her lips twisted into a smile. Playful. Coy. Bold and daring, traits Artorias did not expect. 

“Fret not, Artorias. To let a face as handsome as thine would be naught but a tragedy and a dishonorable display of negligence.” 

Artorias flushed. At least, he thought he did. When his whole face felt warm already, the difference was difficult to discern. His brows raised, scandalized by her choice of words. “Princess…” he muttered. 

Her smile widened, caught in her act and not a single care for that fact. The tips of her fingers pressed against her curled lips, as if she had spoken a curse. “Apologies, knight, if I spoke too casually,” she expressed. Though she apologized, remorse was not a part of her demeanor. 

“No, no…” Artorias reassured. Her smile was contagious, his visage mirrored the jubilee. To be complimented by  **the** princess also played a part in his mirth. If he was any less nobler, it would be a boast to tell until his day of death. “I am flattered, ‘tis all. I only wish I was on better display for thee.”

She cupped his cheek. Her palm grazed right over his wound and to his surprise, there was no pain. The heat of infection was replaced with a different type of warmth, a healing light. She did in seconds what no other healer was able. Flesh stitched itself back together, the toxin was cleansed from his system with a single brush. Artorias did not need a mirror to know there would be no scar. A miracle only she was capable of. Tense muscles relaxed. His eyes closed. He could fall asleep like this. Artorias pressed his face into her palm, drunk on her wonders. 

“Oh fair knight, I see only the finest specimen in mine hand.” 

While Artorias was distracted by the comfort of her power, her free hand untied the strings across his tunic. Her hand slid between the opened slit. In similar motions, her palm grazed over the festering scratches upon his chest. Warmth pooled from her hand and into his heart. Its quickened beat was palpable as palm smoothed across his sternum. 

All that was left was the cut across his stomach. For this, her hand snaked its way up his shirt. As easily as the others, the flesh fused closed. He was healed. A shameful groan of relief slipped from Artorias as his head bent back. 

Gwynevere giggled. 

The hand that sweetly cradled his face pulled away, an empty void left in its absence. The touch upon his torso remained. The princess shifted closer to the knight, her body pressing against his. She leaned into him, closer than he could have ever dreamed to achieve. 

“Thou ought to know, mine eye hast been on thee for some time.”

“Mm?” Artorias hummed, intrigued.  _ Truly? _ He thought. His pulse was now audible in his ears, adrenaline in his veins. What an honor. 

“Oh, yes. I watch thee from the shadows, as to not catch father’s attention. Out of all his closest knights, thou art my favorite. I have craved to meet thee. Thou hast the brightest shine, the most glorious conquests. A beauty I feel kin to.” As she spoke these intoxicating words, her hand smoothed over his abs. Once, twice, three times over before her touch edged closer to the edges of his breeches.

“I… princess…” Artorias was at a loss for words. He looked at her and all he saw now was a dangerously beautiful woman with mischief in her eyes, previously burdened by the confines of her father--- now free to do as she pleased in this fleeting moment.

Gwynevere’s face inched closer to his. Even her breath smelled sweet. “I have more to give thee, if thou wilt have my touch…” 

No was never an option. Artorias was enthralled, bound in her silky threads the moment he stepped inside her domain. He was hers. When he spoke, his tone was low and husk. “ Give it all to me. Let me revel in thy gifts,” he desperately breathed.

It was all Gwynevere needed. Their lips met. She pressed against him with experience, knowledge, and a hunger that had been long present. Her tongue brushed against his bottom lip, seeking permission he eagerly gave. His lips parted and their tongues entwined in a frenzy so intense, poets would believe they were reunited lovers after agonizing time apart. Boundaries and a father’s ire were not theirs to be concerned about. In this moment’s passion, they were meant to be.

The kiss was broken by Artorias’ groan. Gwynevere had wasted no time in slipping her hand down his breeches. Slender fingers wrapped around his cock, already erect from the barest beginnings of lust. She must have found his falter amusing, for she laughed, her breath hot against his neck. 

“My, my. Banish all jests of thy blade compensating. Thou art a fine specimen.” Up and down, her hand ran along his shaft, a steady pump and a mighty fine gift. 

Each compliment only rose Artorias higher. He was in a place of dreams and fantasy now, entirely at her mercy. His breath quickened along with her pace. Her work was definitely not sloppy. 

The ties across her dress were undone by Gwynevere herself. Her hefty breasts were released from their confines. Artorias did not ask before he moved to palm them, he had been dying to do so. Each breast was worthy of its own praise, spilling out from Artorias’ hand despite their similar stature. They were plump and malleable in his touch and swung with her thick breaths. He rolled a pert nipple between his fingers and he was awarded with a moan that came from the heavens. 

“Touch me, knight. Touch me more.” 

Gwynevere took control this time and guided his hand where she wanted it to be. Up her dress and down her panties. She pressed his own fingers inside her with a depraved moan. She dripped with lust, perfectly slick to allow his calloused fingers to slide right in. Artorias crooked his fingers, thumb over her clit, as he took on his own pace in fucking her, all to hear more divine cries of pleasure. He needed to hear her as much as she needed to be touched. 

There were no more words. Nothing else needed to be said. They pleasured each other, her fingers stroking his cock as he plunged in and out of her. They were mirrors. If one hastened, so did the other. The head of Artorias’ cock leaked pre-cum that dribbled down his shaft. Each thrust of his fingers elicited a lewd wet noise. They moaned with and against each other, bodies quaking. She began to pump more furiously, a sign that Artorias was to follow lead. His muscles tensed with an approaching climax. Hers was not too far behind telling by the way her walls clenched around him. 

Faster. Harder. Louder. More and more until they released a cry together. His cock twitched. Thick, white ropes painted the front of Artorias’ tunic. Gwynevere seized around him until a gush of liquid flooded over Artorias’ palm and down her thighs, drenching her fine undergarments in a display of depravity. They pulled away from each other. Her head rested against his shoulder. They were both coming down, chests heaving from their shared orgasm. 

Gwynevere blessed him with one last kiss before she pulled away, her hands adjusting her clothes to present herself as if nothing had happened at all. Like the lady she was, a handkerchief was presented to the knight. 

“Clean thyself, knight, and return to thy duties. Father shall beckon me soon and it would despair me to see thee in any trouble.” Gone was the woman lost in lust. Returned was the proper princess of Gwyn, a pure holy woman. Before the facade fully completed itself, she winked.

“We shall join again, Artorias, when the fates leave us free to do as we please.”


End file.
